


Faces Through Time

by LadyRem



Series: History in Art [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Implied Relationships, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 07:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRem/pseuds/LadyRem
Summary: In which an aspiring art historian stumbles across a pair of figures that seem to haunt the artistic world through the ages.





	Faces Through Time

“It’s a coincidence, Carmen, that’s all.”

“I’m telling you Maxwell—”

“That, what? The same figures featured in art across the millennium, around the world? That’s simply—”

“More than a millennium, Max!” Carmen Fernandez sat down defiantly in the large over-worn chair behind her, dropping the folders in her arms with finality on her advisor’s desk. She flipped open the top one and pulled out a handful of papers and spread them in front of her. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised to see them in a couple of cave paintings, if they had that kind of detail. Just look! Here!”

Carmen started to pull out another group of papers, the whole mess seeming to multiply of its own accord across the desk like particularly industrious rabbits. Maxwell ran a hand through a shock of gray hair with a sigh, and sat back in his office chair, leveling a weary gaze at his student. She ignored it with the ease of practice and held up a large photocopy from a book.

“Right here, see? The same two figures, light and dark, sometimes separate, usually together. I’ll admit, some of them are too stylistic to be sure, especially the vases, yes, I agree, but see, look! Here, in this painting unearthed in Pompeii just last year—”

Carmen pushed the photocopy toward Maxwell. A beautiful wall painting depicting a lavish banquet with entertainment sprawled across the paper. Two figures had been circled in highlighter; a tall man in dark robes drank wine from beside a shorter man, robed in white, as he dined on bread and meats. Maxwell only had time to take it in for a moment before Carmen pushed another paper into his hands.

“And here, later, this bust, with those striking features and those strange eyes, it has an _uncanny_ resemblance to this sketch—” another paper replaced that one “--by Michelangelo AGAIN with that second figure! And here—” another paper “-- even earlier, in this illustrated manuscript, and then later—“ yet another “--in this painting from France during the revolution in a crowd at the guillotine, and even in Seurat’s most famous painting!--” a book, this time, large and awkward “--you can see a pair of figures in the far distance, one light and one dark, strolling side by side along the walk. And look—”

“Carmen,” Maxwell interrupted as quickly as he could, before yet another piece of evidence could be thrust his way.

“But--”

“Carmen, please, stop!” Maxwell rubbed his eyes and set the book down gingerly with the other hand. “I applaud your enthusiasm, but listen to yourself for a moment, for Christ’s sake. I mean, what are you even trying to suggest? That these men are somehow immortal and… what? Also happen to be favorite subjects for artists across the globe through time?”

It’s not that Carmen couldn’t hear the sarcasm or the exasperation. It’s just that she didn’t want to.

“Yes, exactly that, actually,” she said curtly. She flipped open another folder containing more notes and photocopied proof. “I have more—”

“No more, Carmen.” Maxwell spread his hands in a gesture that managed to be both denial and defeat all in one. He stood up quickly from his desk and pulled the sweater from the back of his chair behind him. “It’s Friday. I’m going home. I SUGGEST,” he said, holding up a finger as Carmen began to speak. “That you go home as well and think about something more productive you could spend your time on. As far as this thesis proposal goes, I’m sorry Carmen, but I can’t give you the green light on it. It’s a crackpot theory, and you’d be laughed out of your defense before you even started.”

He raised his finger again as Carmen started to open her mouth in indignation.

“Enough! Now go home!”

* * *

Outside, in the cool fall air, Carmen fumed her way down the stairs of the department building. She had been muttering to herself all the way down the elevator, and now that she was outside in the open the muttering raised a noticeable volume, until Carmen was half shouting over her shoulder at a very confused and rather insulted piece of wall.

“Crackpot theory! I’ll crackpot theory you, you stubborn old son of a—"

Carmen’s mobile began to ring, and she fished it out of her coat pocket with annoyance.

“What?!” she asked. The voice on the other end seemed taken aback.

“Um, hello? Miss Fernandez? It’s, um, me.”

“Me?” Carmen blinked. “Me who?”

“Mr. Bux, miss. You called about the lithographs.”

“Oh!” Carmen’s brain snapped back from whatever curses she had been imagining upon Maxwell and found itself squarely in the present again. “Of course, Mr. Bux! My apologies. Were you able to find anything?”

“Oh, well, um, not the original stand-alones, unfortunately. But I did find a reference to them being reprinted in a book on travel, published in 1835. I don’t personally have a copy, but I have an acquaintance who just so happens to know someone who knows a man who told him of a fellow who runs a bookshop that he believes might have just what you need.”

“A bookshop? Where?”

“On that account, Miss Fernandez, you’re in luck…”

* * *

The bell above the door gave a quiet chime as Carmen entered. Outside, the busy Soho street was a din of human noise, but the moment the door shut the sound seemed to fall away. Inside it was quiet and empty, aside from the rows of books that crowded together like curious onlookers, watching the intruder with a cautious eye. Dust floated through the occasional shaft of chilled afternoon sunlight, giving the air a gilded look. For a moment, Carmen couldn’t move, didn’t dare to breath. Breaking that stillness and that silence felt like a crime, like blasphemy against something old and sacred.

The feeling was broken when some of the gilded dust reached Carmen’s nose and she sneezed, so loud in the quiet that she made herself jump. The spell broken, Carmen shook her head and moved into the shop cautiously, calling ahead.

“Hello? Excuse me, is anyone here?”

The young woman walked past row upon row of old leatherbound books on dark wooden shelves. Nothing stirred. No other customers, no shop assistants. Not even the air seemed to move much around her, though despite the stillness it didn’t feel stuffy. In fact, it was surprisingly comfortable. Carmen found herself taking a deep breath and inhaling the scent of books and dust and… something else. Something earthy, or maybe woody. Familiar, but Carmen couldn’t quite place it. It reminded her of being home with her grandmother on the weekends, or the sweet scent of candles and incense on Sundays, or…

Carmen couldn’t place it. But it smelled good.

“Hello?” she tried again. She reached the center of the shop, and looked at the beautiful display around her, admiring the artistry of its design and the way the skylight above lit it like a gentle spotlight. As she was looking up, a polite cough sounded behind her. Carmen looked down immediately, startled. Her eyes were momentarily blinded from looking so quickly into the shadows of the shop after staring up into the light, and she squinted at the blurred figure before her, not able to see it quite clearly yet.

“Hi, yes, hello,” she said. “Sorry, um. Are you Mr. Fell?”

“Yes, that would be me,” said the figure in a light voice. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, um. I was sent here by Mr. Bux, the bookseller. He said you might have a copy of an old book of lithographs that I’m looking for.”

The figure in front of her moved a little closer, out of the shadows and into the light. Carmen blinked, her eyes finally readjusting. As they did so, she gasped, and nearly took a step back. Only her manners, and her shock, kept her standing still.

Before her stood a man, more or less. The face was not a young one, nor an old one really. The hair was a halo of light, feathery blond curls that went whatever way they seem to desire, though most of it was vaguely upwards. His clothes were old fashioned by any standard, all tan and cream in color, one perfectly manicured hand holding a lapel mindlessly, as if it was just an easy place to rest the thing until needed. There was something curious about him, something that felt _in between_ rather than anywhere solid, and yet he was wholly real, and wholly here.

And wholly familiar.

Carmen stared in disbelief, her eyes wide. She didn’t need to pull out the mountain of photocopies just to make sure. The recognition was instant. She _knew._

“Are you alright, my dear?” the man asked, a look of concern crossing his face. He took a step forward.

Carmen stepped back.

“I…uh…that is, _you…_ ”

Whatever Carmen was going to say was interrupted by the front bell chiming, and the sound of the door being slammed rang out like a shot through the silence. Carmen nearly jumped out of her skin, and both she and the man before her turned their heads to look toward the entrance as a voice called out.

“Aziraphale! Are you ready yet?”

“Oh, um, oh dear…” Mr. Fell – _Aziraphale,_ Carmen corrected in her head as she turned back toward him again—looked flustered for a moment and glanced between Carmen and a figure that was making its way down the main isle. “I’m sorry, young lady, just...”

He had started to move to intercept the figure but was already too late. Somehow, despite moving at what Carmen could only describe as a casual saunter, it had managed to cross the distance at a surprising speed, and now stood like a lank shadow next to the nearest bookcase.

“Oh, what’s this?” the shadow said in a voice that dripped like honey, if honey was feeling particularly languid that day. “Customer? You actually get customers?”

Aziraphael moved closer to the newcomer, placing himself somewhat between Carmen and the man.

“Uh, yes, Crowley, I do. If you just give me a moment, I’ll get this sorted and…”

“Seriously, angel, I thought you did everything in your power to prevent this kind of thing,” the man said, with a gesture around the shop. “Selling the books, I mean.”

“Yes, well, needs must as they say.”

Carmen stared at the two men, her eyes darting between them like a tennis match.

 _Angel._ The word caught on her mind like a hook. And then—

“Oh,” she said, the matter very suddenly and violently setting itself to rights in her mind. “ _OH.”_

Carmen sat down with a hard thump in the chair nearest to her.

“Oh, my dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale turned from Crowley and came over to her, his hands moving rather uselessly in the air as she stared at the floor. “Are you ill? Is there something I can do?”

For a moment, Carmen _was_ ill. A wave of nausea overtook her, and she put her head between her knees and waited for the floor to stop moving. And then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. And three months of curiosity and investigative spirit was gone with it.

Carmen looked up quickly at the man standing over her, and then across his shoulder to the one that slouched in the shadows. She didn’t smile. She just nodded, something between an acknowledgement and a final dismissal, and then quickly stood up.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said. She politely pushed past Aziraphale and started to head for the door. She nodded again, curtly, at the lanky figure in sunglasses as she passed him, who followed her movement with a raised eyebrow. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale looked after her, confused. “Weren’t you looking for something, miss?”

“I was,” Carmen said.

“But don’t you want to find it?” he called after her.

Carmen waved a hand back.

“I already did, thanks!”

* * *

On Monday, Maxwell stepped into the hallway of his department offices and sighed. Carmen sat on the floor in front of his office, with a folder in hand. As he approached, keys in hand, she stood up and held out the folder.

“Good morning, Carmen,” Maxwell said, shying away from the folder like a wary horse. “Got some more proof for me today?”

“Nope,” Carmen said, her lips quirking into a strange half-smile.

Maxwell looked down at the manila folder suspiciously.

“Then what?”

“Some thesis ideas. I was hoping we could go over them.”

“No more crackpot theory then?” Maxwell asked, visibly relieved.

“No. No more theory,” she said.

 _Who needs a theory when you have the facts, anyway?_ she thought, and smiled.


End file.
